Tout Abus Sera Muni

Fabrice Ducouret 

My trusty Honda died a few weeks ago, masha'Allah. Twenty-one years old, 17 under my dominion, sold to me by my mother for the obligatory dollar, and it outlasted her by ten years. Died in the south-facing left turn lane of Sacramento Street at Dwight Way, waiting for the light, taking me to my ptherapist for maybe the 199th time. Another challenge, another blessing. Within thirty seconds of lifting the hood with a helpless, apologetic shrug to those trapped behind, a ginger Irishman in a candy-flake shamrock green pickup stopped to help me kick my dear teal car-cass to the curb.

So, I've been walking a lot—even got my bike repaired—and riding the bus quite a bit, especially in the East Bay, and I think I've put my finger on the essence of the vastly different passenger experiences between East and West Bay.

AC Transit drivers, you see, tend to think their job is to move people around the city, taking them to work, to shop, to see their loved ones, or just soothe their madness for a while with the illusion of escape, or progress toward some other, better, place. The bus is just the means whereby the fundamental civic value of mobility is served. We get on, we exchange greetings, thank yous and you're welcomes are commonplace. There are little movies on some buses, a slideshow of coaches through the years, a tiny documentary on the coming hydrogen generators... The humanity and solicitousness of the drivers sets the tone for cheerful cooperation among riders to provide seats and space for the variously burdened or challenged, and it's generally a satisfying, if slow, means to an end. I get off the bus feeling relaxed and grateful.

SF Muni drivers, by contrast, generally consider their job to be driving the bus, while cleaving to a schedule. This is why they almost universally consider their lowly human cargo such a disagreeable impediment to the next lavish paycheck on the slippery slope to retirement. Again, this morning, the 28 driver yelled threats at the cattle to mooove back into an already overcrowded coach, proving once again they consider it our fault that we are so numerous, and never imagine that we, the folks in whose name, and by whose tax dollars they are privileged to have a fucking job, might just need another fucking bus to come along in a goddamned hurry! 

This is why I tend to despise these odious hell-spawn, who lord over their tiny diesel fiefdoms with such infuriating wrongheadedness. Another challenge, but the blessing of a twice-daily opportunity to rise above, while riding along, I admit, often eludes me. Last night, I missed an AC Transit bus by seconds, coming home late, tired and hungry, but the memory of good rides opened a space in my heart to encompass my anger, and the wait for the next one afforded me time to consider the temptations of sorcery (as it happened) among shamanic practitioners, and I was glad to have this lesson handed to me for the price of an 18 minute sojourn in my moral imagination.

I look forward to resuming my privileged status as a driver, this time with an ancient, elegant, biodiesel burning German tank, within a couple of weeks. As a result of my adventure in carlessness, I'll ride my bike more, and consider taking the bus for certain journeys, but only on the sunrise side of the Bay, insha'Allah!